


Storytellers

by RPGgirl514



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Forced Marriage, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-15 06:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18068204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RPGgirl514/pseuds/RPGgirl514
Summary: The Beast is dead, and Belle marries Gaston in exchange for her father's freedom from the asylum.  They move to Paris, where Belle finds unlikely help from the gypsies.  Will she be able to flee Gaston's clutches and find out what true love really is?





	1. Chapter 1

The carriage creaked and swayed as they rolled through the packed dirt path that bore them ever more towards the City of Light. Ah, Paris. As a girl Belle had dreamed of walking those cobbled streets, getting lost in la bibliothèque, listening in awe as the bells of Notre Dame tolled powerfully across the city. She had longed to meet new and exciting, sophisticated people, rather than stay in the small, narrow-minded town in which she lived.

But Belle would have given anything to go back to that poor provincial town now. Instead she was here in this modest carriage, beside the man—no, the monster—who had murdered her true love and now made her his wife. Madame Gaston. Across from them sat Gaston’s lackey, LeFou. He, too, had been uncharacteristically quiet during the journey. Belle remembered him from before, how he’d never shut up, even under the threat of a fist from Gaston. She had been in the castle for months. She wondered what had changed.

She felt a bump, and the quality of the carriage ride became choppier. The sound of the wheels under them took on a louder, uneven tone. They were upon cobblestone now, which could mean only one thing: they'd arrived in Paris.

Belle peered out the carriage door. The sun had already set, though Paris was not dark. Les allumeurs de réverbères strolled between the street lamps whistling merrily, carrying their ladders and poles, while townspeople wrapped their overclothes more tightly around themselves as they hurried home to share an evening meal with loved ones. It was lovely, exciting and so very, very busy, despite the lateness of the hour. Belle wished she could see the worst in it.

Children laughed and frolicked in the street. A beautiful young woman, not much older than herself, dancing for coins as she beat upon a tambourine. The carriage slowed to allow a contingent of guardsmen to pass, and Belle dug in her pocket for a few coins. When she turned back to the carriage window to toss them out for the young woman, she was nowhere to be found—she had vanished into the crowd like a wisp of smoke.

Belle looked around, hoping to catch another glimpse of the mesmerizing dancer, but the carriage lurched and pulled away. She slipped the coins back into her pocket, disappointed. She didn’t look out the window the rest of the journey.

They came to a stop and the driver assisted Belle to the ground. Before them were row houses running along the street, crammed shoulder to shoulder as far as she could see, until the cobbled street bent out of sight. The one Gaston had bought stood six blocks past the grand Notre-Dame. The cathedral towered like a benevolent mother superior, its rose window a watchful eye over the city. Belle stopped to gaze up at it and almost thought she saw something or someone climbing upon its roof, a speck of darkness against the moon.

“Come along, Belle,” Gaston said. Belle followed Gaston and LeFou inside.

It was much larger than she would have guessed from the outside, the open floor plan of its premiere etage giving an illusion of space. A modest kitchen occupied one corner, while a door to the left opened into a small study. A staircase led upstairs to what presumably were the bedrooms, and the annex above that.

Strange, Belle mused. She'd been a prisoner before, in a cursed castle. But she'd never felt as alone there as she did now, surrounded as she was by the kindness of Lumière, Cogsworth, and Mrs. Potts. City of Light? Non, Belle decided, Paris was the City of Chains

Gaston himself was slightly more bearable now, if only because he had won. He had everything he wanted. He had Belle, if only in name, he had killed his greatest foe, the Beast, and now, he was to live in the greatest city in the world.

"A pity," he said, catching Belle off-guard. "I only wish I could have found the Beast's body. Its head would have been perfect for hanging there." He pointed to the wall just above the fireplace and shrugged. "Good thing I've still got that moose head I bagged during my trip to Germany. LeFou!" he barked. “The moose!”

There was a crash as the bumbling little man toppled down the stairs, moose head and all. Muttering angrily to himself, Gaston stalked out of the room.

Belle felt sick. She stared at the empty wall above the mantle, imagining the Beast's piercing blue eyes staring at her each night in this new home she was to share with her husband. Accusing her. Why didn't you save me? Why didn't you love me and break the spell?

I did, she thought desperately. I did love you, truly. I simply waited too long to say so.

She turned in a whirl of skirts and made it outside to the street before she vomited in a bush under the front window.

"Hey there, sweet thing," came a woman's voice from behind Belle, low and musical.

Belle tried to turn around, but another wave of nausea kept her face in the bushes once more.

"I'm terribly sorry you had to witness that," Belle said weakly, once she had finished. She turned to look at the woman fully.

To Belle's surprise, she recognized the stranger who was smiling from behind a curtain of black hair, holding out a handkerchief with sympathy in her bright green eyes. It was the dancer from the street. "Everybody needs a little help sometimes. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm Esmeralda."

"Thank you," Belle said, taking the handkerchief. She allowed Esmeralda to help her to her feet. "I'm Belle."

“I’ll see you Sunday in the square, yes?” Esmeralda said.

“Sunday?”

“Yes, Sunday . . . you know! It’s the 6th of January! Topsy Turvy Day? The Festival of Fools?” Esmeralda said, her eyes lighting up. “What, they don’t have a festival where you are from? How boring!”

“We usually just call it Epiphany,” Belle said. She and her father normally attended mass in the morning, though last year Maurice had come down with a dreadful cough and Belle had read from their family Bible by his bedside instead, in between spoonfuls of broth. She’d sung Vouz, la Source de tout mon bonheur and other hymns while she made tea in the kitchen, and the music had made her father smile.

“You’re in for a treat, then,” Esmeralda said with a grin. “Come to the square day after next, and Paris will give you a show you’ll never forget.”

Belle smiled. “How could I miss it?”

“See you later, love,” Esmeralda said, and clicked her tongue for the goat by her heels to follow. They were both so light on their feet. Belle watched them go and went back inside. 

The January air was cold, and the fire had been raked down to glowing coals. The warmth in the room was stifling, but the house felt colder than even the drafty dungeons of the Beast’s castle. Gaston had already retired for the evening.

That night, as Belle fell asleep, she was less troubled than she'd been in months. She found herself thinking of the kindness of strangers. Perhaps Paris might be bearable, if it were filled with people like Esmeralda and Clopin. Belle thought she might be going about it all wrong: she had been looking at marrying Gaston as the end of the world, when she might need to shift her perspective to see it as a brand new adventure.


	2. Chapter 2

Belle set out on Epiphany morning with an empty basket on her arm and a spring in her step.  Today was the Festival of Fools! She looked forward to seeing Esmeralda, the closest thing she had to a friend in this city.  But before she could celebrate, she needed to buy food for their evening meal. The _ boulangerie  _ was several blocks away, in the shadow of Notre Dame, so Belle thought she’d pick up bread before stopping at the market for meat and vegetables.  From there she would have time to store her purchases at home before heading to the square.

But as she wandered the cobblestone street, she heard a rich voice singing!  Belle looked around. She found the music coming from a multi-colored cart, parked a short ways away, with a gaggle of children gathered around the cart’s open window.  She approached, captivated by the music.

“Morning in Paris, the city awakes, to the bells of Notre Dame,” sang the gyspy, his expressive hands playing counterpart to his eyes behind his colorful mask. “T he fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes, to the bells of Notre Dame . . .”

The children quieted as the puppeteer masterfully set the scene of his tale.  Belle hung back, idly twirling her basket in her hands.

The man produced a puppet, a doppelganger of himself, and proceeded to beat the puppet over the head for being a dullard.  Belle chuckled along with the children. She allowed herself to imagine a future in which she was occupied with some domestic task while her own children listened to such stories—but the fairy tale faded as she realized the little boy in her daydream had Gaston’s chin, while the little girl had his cold blue eyes.  She put it out of her mind—that reality was still many years down the road, and it was likely this man and his puppets would not be a part of it.

Instead she watched the charismatic storyteller sing the story of the hideous bell-ringer, condemned by his face and locked away in the bell tower by Judge Claude Frollo.  It was probably not the most appropriate story for the children, but Belle supposed the gypsy had glossed over the more violent parts so as to suitably scare them, yet avoid giving them nightmares.  He truly had a gift for telling stories.

“‘Who is the monster and who is the man?’ sing the bells of Notre Dame!” He finished the song with a dramatic flourish, and the children whooped and applauded.

“Another, another!” they cried.

“ _ Non, mes enfants, _ ” he said gently.  “For today is the Feast of Fools, and I must prepare.  But! A  _ bonbon _ for each of you,” he said, and produced small squares of king’s cake from behind the puppet stage.

As the gleeful children took off down the streets in search of their mothers, who were no doubt shopping and preparing for the Feast themselves, Belle approached the window. 

“That was wonderful,” she said.

“Thank you, madame,” he said, clearly pleased.  “I am Clopin Trouillefou.”

“Belle,” she said.  She couldn’t bring herself to attach Gaston’s surname to her own identity.

“It is your lucky day, or perhaps it is mine?  It’s Topsy Turvy Day,” Clopin declared. “You’ve come to my cart for a story, and you’ve gotten one.  Now it is time for  _ you _ to tell  _ me _ a story.”

“Me?” Belle said.  “Oh, no. I read stories,  _ monsieur _ , but I have none of my own.”

“Nonsense!” he said cheerfully, sitting on the steps of his cart and patting the stair beside him.  “Everyone has a story inside of them, waiting to be told.”

“There is  _ one  _ story,” Belle conceded, folding her skirts up as she hesitantly took a seat next to him.  “Though I’m not nearly the storyteller you are, and I haven’t any props, and it may be longer than you’d like.”

“All the better,” Clopin said earnestly, “for the longer the tale, the longer to remain in your presence,  _ madame _ .”

Belle flushed.  She rearranged her skirts around her knees and took a deep breath.  “Once upon a time, there was a young prince, who lived in an enormous castle in the countryside.  He wanted for nothing, yet his selfishness and greed consumed him. One winter, around Christmas time, he was alone in the castle, save for his staff, of course.  There was a knock at the door.” For effect, Belle knocked on the door of Clopin’s cart behind where they were seated.  _ Knock, knock, knock. _

“The prince was irritated.  ‘Who dares interrupt my supper?’ he demanded.  So infuriated was he, he answered the door himself rather than allowing any of the servants to do so for him.”  Belle paused.

“Who was at the door?” asked Clopin.

Belle smiled.  Whether she was proficient at the telling or not, it must have been a good story to hold Clopin’s attention so.  “A wizened old woman stood before the prince. Bent over her walking stick, missing teeth, and dreadfully underdressed for the snow storm in which she had found herself.”  Belle hunched her own back to demonstrate the appearance of the mysterious guest on that long ago winter’s night. Clopin clapped his hands together, thrilled.

“The old woman produced a beautiful perfect rose, in full bloom, from the folds of her cloak.  ‘Please, sire,’ she said, offering up the flower. ‘I’ve no place to stay tonight, and I will surely perish out here in the cold.  I have no coin with which to pay you, but please, accept this enchanted rose for your trouble.’ The wind picked up, howling as fiercely as the pack of wolves that lived and hunted in that very forest.”  Belle felt she was hitting her stride. The words were flowing, and the way Clopin was looking at her gave her the impetus to surge on.

“But the prince, who had been raised with cool courtesy and stiff politeness rather than compassion and love, had no room in his heart for the old woman, and therefore, no room in his castle either.  ‘Begone,’ he bade her. ‘You’ll find no shelter here.’

“No sooner had the words left his mouth did the old woman transform.  She was a powerful enchantress, you see, and she had been testing the young prince.  She again offered him the blooming rose. ‘There is no greater curse than upon those who do not know love,’ she said, ‘and that will be your undoing.  I curse thee, and thy lands, and thy serfs. However, I am not unduly cruel. If you can learn to love another and be loved in return by the time the last petal falls, the curse shall be lifted.’  With a wave of her hand, the enchantress turned the prince into a hideous beast, so that only one who dared to look into his heart would truly love him—but first he would need to learn to  _ be _ loved.  For who could ever learn to love a beast?”

Clopin waited with bated breath.  “What happened next?”

Belle giggled.  “I’ve kept you long enough on such a busy day as today,” she said.  “Though if you insist on hearing the rest, I shall tell it to you tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,  _ madame _ ,” Clopin said, standing and hopping lightly down from his cart.  He bowed so low the feather of his cap brushed the ground. “ _ Á demain. _ ”

Something rich blossomed in Belle’s heart with that simple act of courtesy, as surely as the Beast’s rose had bloomed in that dark room in the West Wing.  A bright spot in this dismal city.

“A pleasure to have met you,” she said, holding out her slender hand.  He clasped it in his, between long thin fingers. She felt giddy, already anticipating the next time she would see the enigmatic puppeteer.


	3. Chapter 3

The Feast of Fools was in full swing by the time Belle made her way to the square.  Gaston steered her forward by a firm hand on her elbow. “I’ll be competing in the archery and shooting competitions on the plain,” Gaston said, and Belle thought that even in his cold and serious voice she detected a hint of schoolboy excitement.

“Good luck,” she bade him politely, though she could not care less how well he performed.  She supposed she had little else to do, though, and decided to make the most of it. She stepped up to the fence separating the contestants from the audience and watched as Gaston took his position amongst his competitors.

Gaston drew back the taut string of his enormous curved bow, an arrow knocked to his cheek.  His blue eyes narrowed in concentration. When he let it fly, it soared straight and true, the head squarely embedded in the bullseye.  Belle applauded politely, a bit less enthusiastically than the rest of the audience. These were city folk, who hadn’t seen Gaston outstrip his competition time after time in every contest he entered.

“My, my, he is a good shot,” a voice purred from behind her. “You must be very proud of him.”

Belle turned to find Esmeralda.  She shrugged. “Gaston’s talents put food on our table,” she said noncommittally.  “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? Or are you not performing today? Monsieur Trouillefou said you would be, and I was quite looking forward to it.”

“Oh, well, if Monsieur Trouillefou said so,” Esmeralda said with a seductive wink that made Belle slightly uncomfortable.  “Don’t worry, sweet thing; I will dance for you in a little while.”

“And the winner is  . . . Monsieur LeGume!” proclaimed Phoebus, the new captain of the guard, returned from war for just such an occasion.  Beside him, in a straight-backed chair befitting of his position as Judge, sat Claude Frollo. He had watched the first acts down his straight, narrow nose with an expression of extreme boredom mingled with distaste, but when Gaston was declared the winner, interest sparked for the first time in Frollo’s cold grey eyes.

“And, now, for the firearms contest . . . gentlemen, take your positions,” the captain called.

“Now there’s a man I’d like to unbutton,” Esmeralda said, licking her lips.  “I’d like to peel off every layer of that golden armor of his like an onion and see if he makes me cry just the same.”

“Esmeralda!” Belle exclaimed, appalled.

“What?” Esmeralda said.  “He’s a bit paler than my usual type, but that’s neither here nor there. Hmm. Do you suppose the rug matches the tapestry, so to speak?”

The loud reports of the muskets drowned out Belle’s embarrassed cry at this, and once the smoke had cleared it was obvious to all present who would take home the prize.

“Well, well, well!” Phoebus announced.  “For the first time in many years, I am assured, we have a double winner: Monsieur LeGume!  You have proven yourself an excellent marksman with both bullet and bow; accept this on behalf of your fellow citizens of Paris!”  Gaston stepped up onto the platform with Phoebus, who laid a wreath around his neck and presented him a fat burlap sack blotched with wine-colored stains.  Later Belle would find that Gaston had won an entire beef cow, already dressed and butchered. Crowds of admirers swarmed Gaston as he left the raised dais upon which he’d received his reward, and once he had shaken off all of them, Frollo asked for a word in a voice that demanded deference.

"You are quite the marksman, Monsieur LeGume," Frollo said.  

"No one shoots like Gaston," LeFou piped up.

"Indeed," Frollo said, his lip twitching in disgust as he peered down upon Gaston's beaming sidekick. He extended his hand to Gaston. "I am Judge Claude Frollo. Perhaps you've heard of me." 

* * *

Belle watched the two men talking in low voices across the square.  A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped.

“Monsieur Trouillefou!  You startled me,” she said.

“Ah, madame, please call me Clopin,” he said gaily.  “‘Tis Topsy Turvy Day indeed if you are startled by Clopin and not the other way round.  Are you having a good time?”

“The best,” Belle said fervently.  “We had nothing at all like this in Alsace-Lorraine.”

“Then it is fortuitous that you have come to Paris. One should not live out all their days without experiencing such frivolity.”

“I say, who is that man?” Belle asked Clopin, gesturing at the tall hook-nosed man by Gaston.

“Judge Claude Frollo,” Clopin said in a hushed voice.  “I will tell you, I would not wish to draw his attention, for it can only bode ill for thee.”

“Oh dear,” Belle said.  She was not worried for Gaston, but she was not heartless.

“I do not know the gentleman Frollo is talking to, however,” Clopin said thoughtfully.

“That is Gaston LeGume,” Belle said.  “He is my . . . husband.”

Clopin raised an eyebrow at her tone, the way her voice caught fearfully on the word, but he did not bring it up.  Their conversation moved to other topics.

* * *

“I beg your pardon, but I've only just moved to the city with my wife," Gaston said, gesturing across the crowd at Belle. His smile faded at the sight of her, laughing at something the Prince dé Sots had said. A scowl twisted his mouth.

"Pardonnez-moi," Gaston said. "I must go deal with a domestic matter."

"By all means," Frollo said dismissively.  "Come see me in the Palace of Justice at your convenience. I believe I have a proposition you cannot refuse."

Clopin and Belle looked up from their conversation as Gaston stalked towards them.

“Bonjour, monsieur, and felicitations on your victories today,” Clopin said, sweeping off his hat and bowing low.  Belle could already tell he had quite the flair for the dramatics. She giggled, but stifled it quickly at Gaston’s icy glare.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Monsieur . . .” Gaston trailed off pointedly.

“Monsieur Clopin Trouillefou, à votre service,” he said smoothly.

“Right,” Gaston said flatly.  “I see you have already met my wife, Belle.”  Gaston made sure to emphasize his claim upon her.

“I’m afraid my fickle subjects require my presence,” Clopin said smoothly, slipping away.

Gaston began to walk away. “Come along, Belle. We must be going."

"I had hoped to stay and enjoy more of the festivities," Belle said.

Gaston grabbed her arm and she gasped. "I think you've already enjoyed enough of the festivities, don't you?" His eyes flashed to the retreating Clopin. It was not a great leap to understand what he was insinuating.

"Let go of me," she said, a steel in her voice she had not had before they had left Alsace-Lorraine.

He did not want to let her win, but with all the watchful eyes around him he could ill afford to let on that he was not the doting husband he claimed to be.

"Fine," he said shortly. "But I'll expect to see you at dinner." He leaned close, his next words a threat for her ears only. "That's not a request."

Belle wrenched her arm away.  Gaston’s eyes flashed, but he let her go.  Belle threaded her way through the crowd, heading for the stage, where a familiar figure gamboled and tumbled and sang as other jesters danced and frolicked around him in flamboyant and extravagant festival dress.  A smile broke out upon Belle’s face, and all the worries that gripped her around Gaston melted away. She clapped her hands together, immersed in the show.

Clopin caught sight of her.  Giving her an exaggerated wink, he finished the song with a deep bow, whipping his feathered hat off his head.  Her stomach did a somersault. She thought how bittersweet and strange it was to feel anything at all.

“And now, I present to you, the mesmerizing Esmeralda . . . danse, la Esmeralda!” Clopin cried, nimbly vaulting off the stage to allow the beautiful gypsy woman the crowd’s full attention.  He landed at Belle’s side,

She laughed as Esmeralda danced around the unsmiling Judge Frollo, finally tipping his ridiculous hat down over his eyes and dashing away.

“It’s wonderful, Clopin,” Belle said.  “Will you be around later? I should like to hear more of your stories.”

“Ah, madame,” said Clopin, “duty calls me away.  But long as there are those to listen, I will be on the streets of Paris.”  With that he leapt back on the stage, ready to introduce the candidates for this year’s King of Fools.

Clopin kept the crowd captivated with a finesse that Belle couldn’t tear her eyes away from.  As Esmeralda tore the masks off of each of the contenders, they made a hideous face in turn, hoping to be declared the ‘Ugliest Face in Paris’.  When they got to the end of the line, however, Belle gasped in horror. Quasimodo, the unfortunately-named bell-ringer, had somehow ended up on stage in the revelry.  Esmeralda reached for his face to take off his mask, until she realized there was none. She recoiled.

There was a tense moment until Clopin smoothly interjected, “Ladies and gentlemen!  Do not be alarmed! We asked for the ugliest face in Paris, and here it is! I present to you this year’s King of Fools!”  Clopin bestowed the floppy crown upon the hunchback’s head.

The crowd cheered, and Belle let out the breath she had been holding.  She didn’t miss the mutinous look on Frollo’s face, however. It was a sense she had first developed in the Beast’s castle, and later honed as Gaston’s wife—she knew how to predict explosive tempers and violent moods.  Frollo seemed just the same.

And then, faster than Belle could follow, things spiraled out of control.  The poor boy, Quasimodo, was lashed to the board in the center of the square, the crowd turning against him in the blink of an eye.  First they were lauding him as their newly crowned king of Fools, the next, they were throwing rotten food at him and saying things Belle blushed to hear.  It wasn’t until Esmeralda stood up to them, with her cry for justice, that Belle realized how far gone the crowd truly was.

“What’s happening?” Belle said, suddenly claustrophobic surrounded by so many people.  There were more people in the square right now than the entire population of the village in which she once lived.

She felt Clopin’s reassuring hand on her back.  “You should get out of here, madame,” he said in her ear. “‘Tis not safe.” It sent a shiver down her spine that both calmed her nerves and set them tingling on edge.

“What about you?” Belle asked, her fingers curling over Clopin’s sleeve.  His eyes flitted down to his arm, momentarily distracted, and he patted her hand.

“Worry not, madame; I have been in far worse scrapes than this,” said Clopin.  “Go!”

Belle ducked a flying head of cabbage and ran for the steps of the cathedral.


End file.
